Milk and Violin
by manuwei
Summary: Eighteen months was not just about time. It contained other details of their living-together and the on-going rumors of their being-together. Sherlock and John, all bromance. I am horrible at summary. Translation of a well-received Chinese Sherlock fanfic. Rate for T for I dunno, enjoy reading.
1. Chapter 1

_**Arthur's note:**_

_**This story is a translation of the Chinese BBC Sherlock fanfiction "Milk and Violin"(牛奶与小提琴）, which originally appeared in the Sherlock Baidu forum. All the good creation work belongs to the lovely Tezuno, a brilliant writer, seriously you should read her original work. I just do the translation. The Chinese version could be found in Baidu tieba, search "牛奶与小提琴".**_

_**I don't do it for money. I don't own BBC Sherlock, though I wish I did so that they would be kissing next season. If you like the story and could now and then forgive my imperfect English, give Tezuno a hurrah.**_

_**The story is all bromance, no slash, hurt and comfor, a lot of fluff. Do please leave your lovely reviews at your convenience or inconvenience and tons of thanks for reading.**_

* * *

1. Experiment

Eighteen months was not just about time. It contained other details of their living-together and the on-going rumors of their being-together, one of which, say, centered on the fact they had celebrated their respective birthdays for at least once during the entire period of flat-share.

For all his life, Sherlock Holmes had been doing bizarre experiments, a lot of which backfired on others as well as on himself. But there was only one that deserved the name of a life long souvenir – a test on the narcotic used in a self-directed kidnap.

On the night before he had a little domestic with his flat-mate, deliberately of course. During the news broadcasting on a massive explosion, he persistently mocked at the non-novelty of the criminal. And the punch line "Shame on the bomber, killing mass in a BANG" finally and successfully wore out John's patience. It indeed took little to infuriate the good doctor, say one right dagger into his overflowing sense of justice.

"Sherlock, don't show off your deduction-only philosophy, just because you are bored!"

Upon this John walked out, pounded up to his room, leaving the door behind creaking on its own. whenever Sherlock got bored or manic or just not in the mood，he let it be known by shooting the wall or torturing the violin. John was different. He was above dramatics. He had never slammed doors. The hanging door was so much worse.

So the next morning, Sherlock in the name of a good apology was pouring tea into John's mug when John walked down the stairs apparently in a nice mood - after thousands of similar miffs, the good doctor never seemed to mind. But that wouldn't stop Sherlock from a spontaneous apology. He eyed the unsuspicious flat mate as he moved in - _a date with what-is-her-name, a third since Sarah_, and handed over the mug. John hesitated a bit but soon a big smile swapped his face. Some sudden premonition hit Sherlock, because John didn't smile in the anticipation of on-coming date, nor in the knowledge that "I know you are apologizing for the last night, and I forgive you", but in that god-damned elementary encourage to some clumsy toddler "I understand that is the best you can do". And he smiled so sincerely that in his blues eyes danced the tender morning light.

Sherlock knew John H. Watson, the ex-army doctor who had invaded Afghanistan, tailed him all over London, constantly shouted at the unwelcomed body parts in fridge and always seemed able to be texted back from middle of his dates, angry yet yielded to his fate, was solid in psyche, marksmanship and fights although he was clumsy in climbing over railings. And now he was smiling at him hopefully and expectantly as if asking a would-be date "I really want to ask you out so please be nice to me". Inevitably, even a Holmes suffered a short-circuit. A quick and main deduction:_ obviously, John misunderstood my motive. _

The question was to which degree John had misunderstood – perhaps, very likely, to some sentiment he couldn't understand - anyway, he finished the mug. Sherlock watched with a feign smile as John sat back, took his papers and before long his arms sank and fell into sleep.

"John, Johansson claimed to have been drugged and lost consciousness until the car reached Southampton."

"He told the police he slept all the way. Only that he has drugged himself to avoid the police questions. The lie is too big, for it is only an 8 hour drive from the spot. Unfortunately, if he had taken that dosage of narcotic, he would have slept for over 20 hours or more. So before he woke up he would have ended up in the English Channel."

"And besides, his bruises, you know, to avoid the eyes and nose stuff… "

Sherlock sank in his chair, fingers to his chin, talking to himself vis-à-vis the sleeping John. It felt strange - his deduction would go unnoticed in John's absence, but the latter was here. He stopped and leaned over, staring at his flatmate as he used to do with Mr. Skull. It was his habit to fix eyes on something and loosen his train of thoughts. But never before had he drifted in the face of John. So that made a novel experience.

_Hair: smooth, sandy, doesn't go wild like the curls. Jumper: pattern ridiculous, rising and falling with breathing. Hands: slightly into a fist, maybe because he was holding newspapers, maybe because of inherent defensiveness. Newspapers: half way down, on the knees …_

"woo – hoo "

The un-living-room sound made Sherlock snatch John's papers, sink back, pretend to be turning pages and seriously doubt why on earth he did all that. _Sub-consciousness?_ Ms. Hudson knocked before she entered, "I have baked more biscuits than expected", and then put her tray on one tiny spot she cleaned on the not-too-surprisingly-gadgets-occupied table.

"Dr. Watson, haven't you got a date today?"

"He is sound asleep." Sherlock answered on his part.

"Oh? That could not be very good. Only yesterday he was asking me for dating tips. Should I know it, I might have told him that most important is to remember the date and don't stand ladies up. "

"Some random female",Sherlock muttered under his breath and promptly stopped Ms. Hudson's further attempt.

"Leave him alone, Ms. Hudson."

Certainly he wasn't worrying that John might wake up. Any attempt to arouse him would end up in vain given the dose and property of the drug. "oh", obviously Ms. Hudson misunderstood his motive, "if you really care about him, get him a blanket."

"I have no blankets." The voice said from behind the newspapers.

Good news for brain work, Mr. Hudson soon went downstairs. Thinking, yes. He swore he was thinking about cases, not whether an overcoat could do for a blanket or he would tuck John in even if he happened to have one. Annoyed and not knowing how, he put down the papers and rose to the desk. The smiley on the wall had long since been riddled with shots. At least staring at this would not lead astray to some hair color or bloody jumper.

When John woke up, it was already dark. Sherlock, still seated by the desk, fingers to his chin, heard the moan relieved from curving for too long on the sofa. He cast a glance at his phone "15 hours".

"Yum…What?"

John mumbled, stretching his sore limbs as he took to his feet.

"…"

Sherlock texted Lestrade: _even a halved dosage could put a soldier into 15 hours sleep. The hostage is lying. He is the accomplice of the kidnapper. _

The result was more or less as he had estimated, but John did even better than his 19 hours expectation.

" Sherlock? What have you done?" In the mist of his texts, John's brain switched on. He took a thoroughly slow look at his surroundings. In the dim light of their living room, his light head moved from one direction to another, and finally at Sherlock.

"Wha…oh god…"

"what time is it now?"

"7 past midnight"

"wha.. oh god…"

John checked his phone and sat back with a loud sigh, rubbing his temple - _clearly he had missed the date_. A wicked curve crept on Sherlock's lips. But it was subtle and far less than being irritating.

"… Sherlock, what have you done?"

The screwed date didn't occupy John for too long before his said mind started working again.

"… You made me teathis morning."

"Err.. There is a case. I need to see Lestrade."

Sherlock stood up and began to strike around the room, pretending to look for coat and scarf. The truth was he had no plan to go out; John would eventually work that out himself and besides - as a real apology, he could make tea for him at least once and without any substances.

"Oh, that milk - It is you, the bloody narcotic test."

It only took one look at Sherlock's smart-arse face for him to realize he really did and acknowledged it. Again John yielded to his fate – anyway, it was not the first time and God knew probably would not be the last one. John shook his head. In the half curtained nocturne he began to take to his bedroom and was stopped by the wakened version that he had just slept for 15 hours. What else could he possibly do? _Go out and have fun?_ It was cold at night and certainly not in the mood - he just stood up his date. _Stay with Sherlock?_ No, not the thrilling results of the experiment with the guinea pig being himself, even though the experiment was solely about him sleeping a whole day on the sofa.

"Alright, now your test is done?"

Eventually he chose his room where he could at least close his eyes and reset his disturbed bio-clock to sleep-at-night-and-sober-at-day mode as the medication went away.

"Then goodnight, Sherlock."

"John."

He halted at the doorway and turned around.

"What …this time?"

Sherlock puckered his lips and looked up.

"This morning, when I gave you the cup, were you happy?"

John frowned the way he usually would say "for love of god, are you actually asking about sentiment?" He held himself from popping out instant tease, but watched as the doctor's expression quickly turned into clouds in recalling the incident.

"oh! That…" his expression eased as memory came vivid back; however, as he eyed at Sherlock, he shook his head all too quickly.

"Nothing, never mind."

Table turned, Sherlock frowned. He did not pursue his questions since he least wanted to impress John as he took a genuine interests in the area he had long despised. As his flatmate disappeared up the steps, he dove into the chair and stared at his phone, the clock ticking away in the background shimmer. He winked at the date.

"why…" He murmured._ Something was wrong._ _Or just a bit familiar. Past 12 pm, it is a new day. The date was a bit…_

"…Stupid."

_Useless stuff will be deleted from the hard drive_. How could he not remember this? He had looked at John's ID. _Birthday. Deduction: John smiled this morning because he thought I remembered his birthday and I made him tea because I would not say happy birthday. Only he found out it was an experiment. What put him sleep 15 hours helped him celebrate his birthday. _

Alright, Sherlock Holmes would not blame himself for things like this. He was convinced that he was far above caring about the number of the birthday cards received. And John had just proved he cared very little either. He missed the date on his birthday and didn't seem too upset about it. But it was his mistake - to put John under the illusion that he remembered something he actually did not. The illusion formed in John's head, still his tea triggered all of this…

_Oh God, since when have I tolerated vagueness and ambiguity in statements? Vagueness and ambiguity show they are shirking facts - criminals' symptom when under questions._

He combed a hand through his hair. Maybe this time he did fell for it. It was simple, very, indeed. He had disappointed John. That smile and the tenderness were for the milk not for the narcotic in it. He knew he would not mind. John was a soldier and besides he had got accustomed to his ways. So he would not produce any above-average complaint, the drug being so much kinder an idea than shooting at wall and keeping the whole street up. Still he could not help himself thinking about compensations. _Oh, damn it. Sentiment. Sentiment is annoying. And hey, how come the adjective is not boring?_

Upstairs John was preparing to try some boring book to get him into sleep again when he heard the violin from below. _Thank God. It is not rocket-in -the-making._ The happy birthday song. Brief. 16 seconds before it stopped. He could almost picture the detective bow the strings by the window, too awkward for a second chord. A text came at once he was done

—What was that noise on your floor? I did not quite figure it out. JW

2 Seconds later, buzz on John's,

—Shut up and sleep. SH


	2. Chapter 2 In the hospital

2. in the hospital

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm really, really sorry,.."

Sherlock wrapped himself in the sheet. Though the body language screamed resentment and non-interest to the maximum, his detective hearing got every mutter and mumble from the apologizing doctor to whom he was now throwing his back. Even the high-pitched complaints from the other end did not escape him.

"Please…Don't hang up." he was not given time to finish. Sighing loud, John turned around to the something-like-a-snowball now sitting on the hospital bed, which seemed to have grown eyes on its back and were scoffing at his stare. "If you really meant no disturbance, you would have got the call in the corridor." _Rather than feigning a complaint to inform your flatmate that you, good doctor John Watson, had again sacrifice his date for the sake of babysitting you. _

"Shut up, Sherlock. I did not mean that." His head spinning in a mess, John was far above childish feud "I just…"

The halt proved Sherlock's prediction, "Didn't want to inform the whole corridor you have been dumped again."

"...Yeah, yes."

John had really grown beyond Sherlock and his tease. He pulled the chair next to him, sat straight down and began pulling newspapers.

"Good deduction."

Sherlock, seeing his bomb sink into human-free and thus human-safe open water, gave a deadly glare at the chair and the sandy hair above it. He buried his head even deeper into his pillow.

Silence. John kept a countdown to himself, 5,4,3,2…

"John, I need water."

John sighed, got up and handed a glass over. Usually when silence protest lasted less than 5 seconds, it meant Sherlock was on the edge of boredom. And this bored genius didn't even seem bothered to take it. He sipped it while John was holding the glass and immediately sank back to his pillow.

"Sherlock , you need to drink more fluid." John still held the glass and pushed it to Sherlock, "Now, you need…"

"Oh, for god's sake! John, can you cease for a minute to be professional? Keep that "do-this-and-you-get-better" doctor-to-children stuff away from me! Staying in hospital only gets me bored and bored to death even more quickly. I NEED a case!"

"I said no way!" John pushed him onto bed - not with so much force as to touch his wounds, "Sherlock, it has been only two days since your last case and 9 hours since you came around. So can you just keep quiet?"

"So who put me into a coma in the first place?"

For some better-keep-it-silent shamefulness Sherlock didn't continue with his accusation. Yet the glower spoke for itself "_You punched me into it._" The consequent coma was entirely a result of narcotic.

"That is because you were running around covered in blood and still refused to get onto the ambulance."

"The case was not finished!"

"Dressing change." Door opened and a nurse entered. She gave John a glaring scold. "Sir, I thought you were aware not to disturb the patient during visiting hours."

"...I'm sorry." John shrugged in compromise - a token of good attitude. And then he added, trying to keep Sherlock under management, "Lestrade is taking care of it. For once in a while you should put your trust in the Yard."

"In fact," she cleared her throat, a little distasteful about what she saw. "You could leave your friend alone…" "no", Sherlock interjected, promptly and firmly, "he stays with me."

"Mr. Holmes…" she furled her eyebrows at the answer and its assertiveness. "Please trust that we are capable of taking good care of you…"

"Really? As a nurse who had a fight with her boyfriend after movie last night and later got drunk in a bar, you are sure of that? Sorry, though you have got your license for three years and performed rather professionally at work, but John Watson is as professional and plus a doctor. So leave your work to him."

Here it went again. John felt his heart went out to her, but in between watching her suffering and venting Sherlock's anger for no reason, he decided to choose the latter.

"But..." The poor nurse, obviously unwarned of the omniscient deduction power, picked up the last sentence for defense.

"But he's not our doctor..."

"But you're not him. Go away."

John frowned like thunder as the nurse walked out yet forgot to take the lingering suspicion with her – the hovering unease all thanks to "but you are not him."

Shouldn't people feel it a bliss for this "only you not anyone else" uniqueness? But Sherlock had nothing slightly resembling "people". The self-diagnosed sociopath could conjure up justification for everything that slip his lips, which John knew too well to feel obliged for this everything to be statements of gratitude or love or whatsoever. And plus he just broke up with his girlfriend – fine, he admitted it, being dumped because the girlfriend grew jealous of the flatmate again.

"Grow up Sherlock!" He moved to the bed stand and began to check medicine bottles in silent angst. " Don't drag us into a couple just because you are too shy to have it changed."

The consulting detective gaped and almost, well almost, stroke back the two clauses that put him in shame before his high functioning brain paused him with a siren alarm: _wait and see if John gets her back. Mining field avoided, tactic change. _"John, be professional, don't dump your post-breakup misery onto your patient."

_Dumping? All you have ever done is barking orders at me, scaring the nurse off with this nobody-fancies-to-know privacy, pushing me into the job which is supposed to be done by her and now she even believes I am gay, only because you are bored and you want to take on the world with your smart arse, and you are accusing me of dumping my misery on you?!_

Having spent so much time with Sherlock not in vain, John had mastered the art of thinking one thing, saying another, doing still another. Why else the triple conflict between thoughts, words and deeds? He would think about, "when the hell could we not have body parts in the fridge?" When he actually said, "Sherlock, sort out your stuff." Then he crammed milk and break into whatever space he could manage. He would debate "Shit, I am going to screw up my work tomorrow." When he heard his self say, "Oh God, another 10 minutes." Then he struggled to get up and followed Sherlock to crime scenes. And this time he actually heard himself cursing and yelling to shoot the criminal, when he concentrated mainly on the getting-nowhere verbal suggestion "You are wounded. Get onto the ambulance!" and eventually unhelpfully punched him and shoved the passed out detective into the car.

Therefore John, cursing the brat under excellent self control, set to preparethe bandage and the disinfectant.In between his doctor routine, he eyed Sherlock and asked how he was feeling.

Sherlock did not seem to take it. "Bored", he rolled his eyes with a casual air.

"No one asked you this!"

The criminal chopped Sherlock in his left shoulder with a blunt instrument. Although he was there to prevent the further injuries to the collarbone, Sherlock sank into hemorrhagic shock because of the excessive bleeding. The shimmering dark marks of blood on his coat choked John whenever he thought about it.

"Does it hurt now? Your pillow is pressing against your wound."

"I said, bored." Sherlock frowned and muttered as he looked away. " That is what drives me mad, not the pain."

Oh… John jerked his eyebrows and closed in to fixate Sherlock's drifing eyes - I guess you are just too shy to say "No, don't worry." Or "Thank you for your concern"？

For response he got a glower –_are you changing or not?_

"Sherlock, let me remind you one more time. Watch the occasion." John stopped teasing and sounded serious as he helped Sherlock out of the hospital dress and untied his gauze. More than often Sherlock couldn't help himself praising the criminal for being "fantastic" even in front of the victims' families. Sergeant Donoven loathed him for this and over stressed her tone when she called him freak. John knew Sherlock to be fine with it until this time when he almost bled to death. "You cannot top the case above everything else. You almost got yourself killed. How can you jeopardize your life for the sake of thrills? Let alone it being unnecessary."

He knew his words were getting nowhere. It was as useless as telling your friend "Protect your self. Don't get killed" before they walked onto the battle field. He understood how intransigent Sherlock could be. He never listened to him, not to anyone. But John couldn't help himself from thinking about it. He had enjoyed and clung to the adventures they had to keep on with his life. So when he was knocked out and kidnapped by the Chinese cult, planted with bombs by Moriarty or threatened for a code at gunpoint, he just took and accepted it as a part of their adventures, necessary and inevitable. Yet he couldn't afford any possible loss of Sherlock, not to the slightest

"…John."

"…" This time a John Watson made it to Sherlock's side. But what if he had not made it?

"John."

"…" How about next time? What if he could not make it the next time?

"John，so now you understand how I felt, when you were tied, packed and delivered to me with planted bombs or pointed guns.

"…What?"

"If you were not such an idiot, you could have avoid these avoidable dangers and thus saved me tons of trouble when I tried to solve cases."

The job was done. Sherlock did his bottoms with his good hand and wrapped himself up in the sheet, throwing John his back again.

"…OK." John turned to put away the bottles and jars, when he heard over the clattering, "Thank you for your concern."

A million facts had warned John not to appear anywhere near the consulting detective when he was disengaged from cases, not even for 5 seconds, because you never knew if his racing-to-smoking brain would just go off and blow the by-standers. But now John had to appear by his side day and night.

At midnight Sherlock was burning, thanks to the clinical complications, running a fever of 39 Celsius. For every 20 minutes, John had to remove the cooling towel and additionally cope with a wide range of fever talks. He must sue this hospital, he swore to God! Even though Sherlock had been observant and mean and a pain in the arse, that would not make up for the hospital staff to just walk by this particular ward with "Go Away" stuck on the door. He twisted his anger into the towel - these guys were doing nothing more than playing on-lookers. And oh, he deserved all the OT bills and perhaps also a bonus, since the patient was far more than being an average pain in the arse.

"You are making noise."

Sherlock mumbled in his dizziness, disturbed maybe by the dripping water, maybe by the raging thinking going on John's part.

_Ok, all right…I am not going to punch you since you are sick. _For the thousandth time the good doctor reigned himself with the sheer force of will power. He had lost count as for many times he had done this. If Sherlock was not sick, the prior sentence might well end with "since you are solving a crime." or "since you are in the pit of boredom." or the ultimate version of cosmic tolerance "since you are the world's only high functioning sociopathic consulting detective."

"Keep your towel away from me." For the first time in hours, Sherlock seemed to be aware of another human being's attendance. He opened his eyes and the innocent towel suffered his glower.

"If you wish to burn your intelligence down to the human average, I have no objection."

"Don't put that thing on my head!" He tossed the towel precisely into John's hands." I don't want to look like an idiot."

"You ARE an idiot." The towel was packed and made its way back on the detective's head. "Hey, don't shake!"

When Sherlock came around the next morning, he could tell it was 9 am by the solar position and was confirmed by a glance at the bedstand, 9:07. The towel was gone from his head in the basin. _Clumsily folded, not quite John_. Apparently he had been too drained to care about this last night - or perhaps to until this morning. Sofa seemed intact.

"John？"

Sherlock called but there was no doctor in the room. Familiar footsteps were approaching up from the corridor.

"Sherlock? did you wake up？"

The door opened with a fluffy head.

For a fleeting moment, Sherlock thought his hard drive had indeed crashed and burnt. Then John shoved in, one arm holding a giant toy bear, the other their breakfast. The truth was the bear was so overwhelming to John, he could only see his path by tilting his head. The sandy bear and the sandy hair of John, why else Sherlock came under the illusion the good doctor had transformed into a giant toy?

Oh, there was another one. obviously, the bear's stripped jumper.

The jumper. That explained the harmony between man and his toy. "John, I have no idea that you share your taste with teddy bear."

"Whatever you want to say. Shut up." God knew that Sherlock's fever persisted until 8 in the morning and he had copped for a whole night with senseless talks and with hard doubts as which talks were grumbles and which pure nonsenses. The constant concern about a massively intellectual creature was beyond someone at his brain level. John's brain was yelling a strike. He just got changes wrong when he bought breakfast. He felt if he didn't get himself into bed any sooner, his brain system would simply crash.

That John had not sleep last night paused Sherlock when John shoved the toy bear into his arms. He did not even object before he realized what had happened and John had already curled under blanket on the sofa.

"John, remove this!"

"I am taking the sofa. The bear stays on yours." John shot him the last angry look before closing his eyes

"It is not mine. Don't mess it up."

Sod it. Mess up? How can you mess up with a teddy bear, autopsy?

"…"


	3. Chapter 3 Teddy

3. Teddy Bear

Sherlock looked at the bear which was now sitting across his legs and looking back. He had a sense that his territory was being invaded. He was observing. His hard drive was not functioning at its normal speed right after the fever. But that also did wonders, to say the least, the immediate boredom that accompanied his usually supersonic deduction was prevented.

At 9:22, the sun tilted to gold plate the ward floor. The doctor was sleeping on the sofa under cozy blanket; the detective was leaning against the hospital bed, studying the dubious teddy bear in absurd jumper which resembled the doctor's absurd jumper

_Idiot._

Sherlock eyed the ball on the sofa. The ball had repeatedly cooled him with towel in his semi coma._ John Watson is an idiot._

He knew John was different from the very start of their encounter. He had known it so that he forced his show-off impulse to make way to the flat-tour invitation the next evening. As they became flat mates, Sherlock, as arrogent as he had always been, found himself constantly marvel at his wise choice and good luck. The good doctor would not be shunned away from surveillance and kidnaps, and bonus he would block Mycroft. He would not mind when his privacy was ticked away, and bonus gape idiotic and heartfelt amazings and brilliants.

For someone who had been to war and had trust issues, it was simply odd how it never occurred to him that he should move away for the sake of privacy when his roommate, busy or bored or having nothing better to do, regularly decoded his computer password, checked his emails and pointed out what he had done with whom where and how. To make it odder, however raged he looked at the exposure of his privacy; he left the password and the girlfriends' mail box unchanged. Never had he attempted to hide his sentiment, his date or his trace. For Sherlock, John was transparent. Either he was a total idiot, or … he trusted Sherlock…

To the point, whatever Sherlock had done and did and would do, he trusted that the detective meant no harm. Or maybe, when he indeed hurt him, he trusted that the detective really, unquestionably and absolutely, did not do it on purpose.

That was why he would follow him on adventures and kill for him and stay with him in hospital. After so much he had done, John still stayed above blackmailing Sherlock with his sacrifice "Since I have saved your life, can you save the kitchen?" "Since I have attended you a whole night, can you leave me in peace for a minute?" He always had but simple requests - "If you don't sort the kitchen out, I'll cram whatever I find in the fridge into your sandwich." "I am taking the sofa, so the bear stays on yours."

No words, no compliment, no rewards for his bit. All John needed was adventure and perhaps some other proofs to declare his existence. Maybe he never realized what he had done had made him apt to be returned and allowed with anything. The complete trust brought Sherlock a better sense of accomplishments, far better than case solving. It was something beyond the case, the drugs and Mr. Skull - what he once defined as indispensable of his life

At 9:25, the rightful owner of toy bear showed up, a boy in hospital gown just tall enough to reach the doorknob. He popped his head in and saw at once his toy on Sherlock's bed.

"Johnny！" The little boy cried and jogged forward.

_That is his name? _Sherlock smirked at the coincidence.

"Andy, no!" The lady who followed in must be his mother. She took him in her arms at a distance from the toy. "We have talked. You cannot stay with Johnny before you recover."

Just one look and Sherlock built the connection between the gasping boy and the odd presence of bear: _respiratory disease, contact with fluffy toys must be prevented in case of further infection; the kid has to be hospitalized yet cannot leave his teddy bear. He took it with him, which his mother later handed to John with excuses like "this mister will look after him for you." He is not assured, so he came over to check on John. _

Not a difficult leap. The difficult leap was how John managed to gain attention and trust from ladies with such ease and took the treasured bear in less than, say, a breakfast time.

"Mom!" the boy struggled in his mother's arms. "I want to stay with Johnny just for a while, the last time."

"No, darling, you always rub your face against Johnny. That doesn't help with your recover. Or you want to keep Johnny waiting even longer?"

"Your bear loves to stay here."

Sherlock frowned a little before he decided to be bent to the social nicety called wooing children. Not his area at all. But John might be wakened up.

He lowered his voice and continued, "He, Johnny just told me he likes this room, because he could see the sycamore trees through the window, which has reminded him of when you two rolled around on the lawn. And he also said he would wait for you right here so that you could celebrate your 3rd birthday together. "

"Really?" The boy asked with wild eyes.

" Isn't it?" _The bear smells grass and dirt; and besides there are the crumbs of sycamore leaves; then the texture of jumper and the age of colors._ His sore throat saved him, for the first time, the trouble to go into harangue. He winked at the mother, suggesting that it was merely a random guess in case that she might mistake him for a stalker. The little boy finally let go of his bear. As she withdrew from his ward, the mother was still amazed at how a random guess wooed her boy.

"Thank you, really…" She said, "You know, he and his Teddy bear, they are …the inseparabLЕS."

_When a child finds his beloved toy, he clings to it and never let go. S_herlock looked at the bear occupying his bed and thought about, not entirely, the story between that boy and his toy bear.

It's just...

He and his Teddy bear, they are …the inseparables.


End file.
